Never the Same Again
by Sensue
Summary: Lestrade has been assaulted and doesn't recognize his rescuers, at first. Dr. John Watson has to break through the fear and pain in order to help his friend. But, can John work through his own fears in order to help him? (PTSD!John) - Sherlock's Kink Meme Prompt.
1. Prologue Chapter 1

{PROLOGUE}

Greg Lestrade had been a police officer for over fifteen years. He'd worked his way up until he'd advanced to Detective Inspector of one of the most effective divisions of the Scotland Yard. He'd been so proud of what he'd accomplished in a short amount of time; he made his family proud – or so he thought until his wife stepped out on him for the third time since his promotion.

Apparently, she couldn't handle his work hours – couldn't handle the stress of being an officers' wife and constantly berated him for it. Greg tried everything that he could to be understanding, ignoring the cheating and twisted lies for the sake of their two children. He wanted his marriage to work. He wanted someone to come home to after the long horrific days in homicide. His wife had no idea about the things he'd seen through the day and he had no inclination to tell her any of the sordid details, no matter how much she begged for 'open dialogue' about his day.

He'd taken to stepping out for lunch when he could and meet up with her for a quick meal in order to 'spend more time together' as she'd demanded. His men rolled his eyes at him when he waved to them on the way out the door, many of them making whipping noises as he passed them by. Yes, they certainly could haze him for being whipped for he felt the old ball 'n' chain as it dragged along invisible behind him, weighing him down.

As he parked his car near the café where his wife was meeting him, he noticed a florist not too far from the restaurant. The shop carried her favorite flowers, red roses, and he asked the clerk to wrap it up nicely. He handed the young woman the plastic charge card and tried not to wince at the cost. The cost, he hoped, would be worth it if his wife allowed him back into their bed.

Apparently, he'd forgotten the anniversary of their first kiss, and he'd been put out – made to sleep in the guest room until he'd made it up to her. There were far too many anniversaries to remember… but, stating that fact seemed to backfire on him.

As he walked to the café from the florists, he couldn't help but notice a black van parked in the alleyway – blocking the rear entrance of the restaurant and surrounding boutiques. He was about to go and check it out when his wife waved at him from their usual outdoor table.

He shook his head at the van and mentally brushed it off as he made his way to their table and handed her the bouquet of roses.

If he could've reversed time and space, that was the one moment he wished he would've changed. That one single decision!

For it was that decision that ruined his entire life.

-  
{CHAPTER ONE}

It was dark. At least, Lestrade imagined that it was dark in that both eyes were swollen shut and he couldn't see a single damn thing. His body was raw, and he was so cold that he was practically numb. He knew he was strung up in some moldy basement, completely naked with the exception of his tie. The bastards left it on and strangled him with it a few times.

He was bleeding from his cheek, the red hot blood warmed his face and proved him still alive. Greg fought to keep from losing it, every one of his senses enhanced –body poised in fight or flight but unable to move. One of his shoulders was dislocated, though it was hard to tell which one at this point with both of them overextended his head and holding up his entire body weight, toes barely touching the wet concrete.

His head still felt foggy, a concussion a sure diagnosis from being bashed in the skull with a tire iron by some nameless brute and thrown in the back of a van. The gang had been after him for sure. They waited until his wife kissed him goodbye and then grabbed him. He fought two of them, while the third hit him over the head. It was so quick he hadn't even had time to call out for help.

Next thing he remembered was getting strung up with metal chains digging into his wrists and getting the wind knocked out of him with every rock-hard fist against his flesh. The worst hits were to his face – his eyes. They'd swollen to the point where he couldn't see where the next hit was coming from. Somehow, that made it a thousand times worse.

Not knowing where they were – what they were doing or even how many of them there were as they beat him senseless. Greg hyperventilated at the memory of them cutting his clothes off with pocket knives. He'd screamed obscenities at them until one of them placed a blade against his lip and cut him. His mouth still tasted of blood. He stopped screaming and gave in. Once he was naked, they replaced his necktie and proceed to tighten it until he couldn't breathe. He blacked out several times, waking only when they sprayed him with ice cold water.

He vomited everything he'd eaten at lunch at the warm touch of a hand caressing his skin. The vomit must've gotten on the man, because Greg got a knee to the balls right after. "You're disgusting!" The bastard shouted, bashing a fist into his gut before leaving the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Greg listened intently, making sure that they weren't the room before breaking down in sobs from the pain and fear. What the **_hell _**did those bastards want from him? He didn't have any freaking money! He didn't have much power – the damn bureaucrats at the Yard made sure of it. He wasn't even investigating anything important.

The pain was unending and time stopped. They barely left him alone to think and continued to beat and cut him until he begged for it to end. "Please, stop. I'll give you whatever you want. Just tell me! What do you want from me?"

They just laughed, one of them licking the blood, sweat, and tears from his face making him jerk away painfully, the muscles in his dislocated shoulder pulling in an impossible direction. One of them whispered in his ear, "This is for my brother! This is for the pain you caused my family." With that, the man stabbed his thigh with a pen knife and twisted it.

Greg screamed. His legs collapsed completely from under him as he felt the right shoulder finally give as he lost consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

{CHAPTER TWO}

A touch on his neck shocked him; adrenaline pumped through his body, making it hard to understand what was happening now. It sounded like he was under water, drowning as he was being held down under the current, his thudding heartbeat pounding in his throat. He fought at the hands that held him to the cold wet concrete. The sudden realization that he was free from his chains fueled his panic. He tried to roll to his hands and knees, but as soon as he tried to move – the pain returned and he screamed as the hands on his body tightened forced him immobile.

"No! Stop!" A familiar voice ordered as the warm hands held him. "Greg – listen to me. It's alright now. It's me – John Watson. Sherlock and I are here to help you. Don't move, my friend. You'll hurt yourself. Sherlock! Find a blanket, now!"

"Sherlock?" Greg whispered, "He's here?" He jerked his head away from the probing touch at his scalp.

"Yes, Greg. Now, please, stop fighting me. I'm only trying to help you." The man's voice was soft as he whispered in Greg's ear. Now, both of the man's hands cradled Greg's face, preventing him from turning his head away.

"Let me go." Greg pleaded, his mind still reeling in pain. "Please, please. I'll give you what you want."

"Greg…" The voice was calm, speaking softly, "It's John Watson. Do you know where you are?" The hand that had been on his cheek moved slowly to his swollen eyes, brushing the bruise softly with his thumb before gently prying up an eyelid. A light seeped through the darkness, the first light he'd seen in weeks – or had it been months? He cried out, "No, please." At this point, he sobbed. "No more." It became dark again and he whimpered with relief and dread.

Another voice broke through the cries, "John, here's a blanket. The ambulance will be here in fifteen minutes. What can I do to help?"

Something warm settled over his broken body and he couldn't help but hyperventilate. The man who was holding him… Perhaps he could be reasoned with. "John?" Lestrade sobbed, "I want to go home, _please_." As he begged another set of hands touched him, and he bucked hard, trying to pull away. Greg finally realized he was on the ground, flat on his back – arms over his head and legs so tight it was as if was strapped to a medieval rack. He couldn't move his arms at all and his legs were pulsating in pain. "God! Stop! Please." He begged them.

"Sherlock, back away. I've got this." Lestrade heard John murmur, and surprisingly, one set of footsteps backed away from them. "Shh, Greg. You know me – Doctor Watson, John remember? You have a concussion. It's making it hard to concentrate, but try and focus on me. Just breathe – calm down. In and out."

It wasn't the voice coaching him to breathe that caused him to calm, it was the spinning dizziness that thudded through his body… fingers returned to his neck, pressing against his pulse point and murmuring to the man still standing by the door. "His heart rate is starting to drop, it's probably positional – the cuts are superficial, blood loss looks to be minimal. The bastards wanted to hurt him. He's in severe pain; both arms are dislocated and separated from the shoulder joints." At this point, Greg barely felt the hands gripping at his wrists and press his fingers under the metal restraints for a pulse. "The blood flow is slightly diminished."

"Can't you perform a reduction?" The question was spoken matter-of-factly, a hint of superiority in the tone.

"No. It's not like on the tele, Sherlock. I wouldn't dare try without an MRI first and plenty of painkillers." He paused, "Any updates on the boys?"

"Ten minutes, John. How is he?"

"I don't think he recognizes us, Sherlock. So, go slow."

The dizziness faded slightly, clarity becoming more tangible as the seconds ticked away. "I know you…" Greg rasped. "You're my friend."

"Yes, John. I'm just taking your vital signs until the ambulance gets here. Then we'll take you to the hospital and you'll be feeling better in no time," John rambled.

"I can't—I can't move. Why can't I move?"

John moved his hand to the older man's chest, patting him in gently in an area not covered in bruises. "Both of your shoulders are dislocated, Greg. You've been in the same position for five days… understandably your muscles aren't used to relaxing yet, it's like one large spasm. Most of the cuts are in stages of healing. The one at your lip looks a bit infected. But, not to worry, we'll get you the good drugs soon and the pain will melt away. You'll be alright, I promise."

"No, it won't. Nothing will be alright again." Greg cried, "I give up. I can't do this anymore."


	3. Chapter 3

{CHAPTER THREE:: John's POV}

Dr. John Watson was a soldier – a Captain—something most people tended to forget. At least, the ones who knew him as Dr. Watson first. They forgot that he was trained in combat as well as in medicine – never piecing together the deadly combination. As a doctor, he knew every part of the human body – knew what to hit to inflict the maximum amount of damage. He knew exactly how much pressure it took to break a bone, destroy a ligament, or even how to simply cause a bruise.

That was his gift.

Sherlock Holmes, his partner, as Dr. Watson took to calling him for lack of a better, more defined relationship term, was the detective; Sherlock was the one to piece together all of the tiny details and complete an entire picture of a crime. He was, by far, the best detective he had ever seen in his life. If it weren't for the man's lack of ambition and inability to work well with other people, John imagined the man running his own division at the Yard, if not the secret service along with Mycroft.

The call from Detective Inspector Dimmock came as a complete shock. Lestrade had been kidnapped – in broad daylight – from a café that he frequented weekly with his wife. Thankfully, Mrs. Lestrade had escaped unscathed and unaware that the crime had even been committed until he didn't arrive home from work later that evening. Lestrade routinely called her if he was going to be late, and she worried when he didn't call reporting him missing when he didn't show up in the morning.

Sherlock was in an uproar – It took all of John's skill in diplomacy to calm the situation; though, at one point he almost joined his friend in chinning the chief. Apparently, no one at the Yard thought it out-of-the-ordinary that their department head did not return from lunch. One of the men sniggered that he was probably 'getting on with the missus.'

At that point, Lestrade had been missing nearly sixteen hours without a single officer in search. Sherlock, of course, was like a dog with a bone – he refused to let go until every avenue had been investigated.

Most of the time, they were all investigating murders; crimes that had no time-limit. If it weren't solved today, collect the evidence and solve it tomorrow. This time, they were running out of time –in a big way.

There was no ransom – a VERY bad sign. There were no demands, calls, or clues about who they were or why they kidnapped the detective inspector. Lestrade was a good man. He wasn't a dirty cop, not under suspicion of any form of corruption. For a high-level police officer, he was popular and knew how to play politics. He didn't have many enemies and the ones that he had were behind bars.

It had taken four days for Sherlock to find Lestrade chained up in that dark dirty basement in the middle of town. John assumed that the man would've been taken to a remote area – somewhere no one would hear him scream or cry out for help. But, no… Lestrade had been surrounded by neighbors in a highly populated area and not one single person risked their neck to help him. It wouldn't have taken much – a simple phone call from their mobiles. Everyone had one, nowadays. Most were programmed with a one-touch emergency call, and better yet, it was free to call. And not one single person called in four days.

John could tell that Sherlock was upset; while Sherlock was a self-proclaimed sociopath, he didn't understand how heartless and selfish people could be. But, John knew. He'd learned about it, not in Afghanistan, but in London as a child. People never saw the truth – they deluded themselves into thinking everything was perfect in their insignificant lives. Why would they want to hear the neighbor's screams every night as her husband beat her senseless in front of her children?

The sight of their friend tied up helplessly from rusted chains nearly sent John spiraling into a flashback. Perhaps Sherlock heard his intake of breath or saw the look on his face, because a hand gripped his elbows tightly and shook him until he gasped for air.

"John. We need to help Lestrade." Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly, calm and collected and certainly not completely horrified at the sight in front of them both.

John took in a deep breath, just one, and sprung into doctor-mode. He rushed to his friend and immediately searched for a pulse. Once he established that his friend was still alive, he started barking orders, "Call an ambulance! Tell them to hurry. We'll need to get him down from that, but slowly."

Sherlock sent a message to Mycroft, John assumed. If anyone could bring help quickly, the British Government surely could. Moments later, Sherlock unhooked the chain from the hook near the wall and slowly, using all of his body weight as a balance, lowered Lestrade to the floor. John guided his descent until the man was flat on his back. Once he was there, he began to work in earnest.

The ABC's of first response were put to use; airway established, breathing measured, and circulation determined to be low in extremities. The leg was worrying, red streaks of infection evident even to a non-physician. A small pocket knife stuck out of the thigh, blood already dried and stopped until they'd moved him. The fact that it was a large wound, indicative that the knife had been twisted was especially concerning. John took several pulses at the femoral and popliteal arteries; he watched as blood slowly seeped from the area. "Shit." John swore softly.

"John?" Sherlock questioned, "How is he?"

John stared at Sherlock, "How long until the ambulance gets here?"

"Twenty minutes. What can I do to help?"

"Nothing, unfortunately. I don't have any medical equipment; The only thing we can do is take vitals." John moved to run a hand across his face, but stopped when he noticed his hands covered in blood. He moved his hands down Lestrade's body, starting at his head. Sherlock inched his way closer, staring at him until John gave in and started a laundry list of injuries. "Head wound, likely concussion. Severe infection in his leg. Circulation is compromised in the leg and in his arms." It was hard not to start hyperventilating. Dr. Watson felt like a failure. "We should've found him sooner. There would've been time then."

"Time?" Sherlock asked.

Ironically, John didn't have time to answer his question before his patient started awake. It had taken all of his training, his experience to calm his friend. He'd been there before – in the middle of a warzone, working to save lives. He never thought he'd experience it again so soon. John wasn't entirely mentally prepared for it.

While the diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder was, in the Holmes' eyes, completely wrong – there was a small truth to it. The nightmares that woke him, the fear, and the memories of being shot had not yet faded. He'd seen soldiers tortured before; he'd seen women raped and murdered. He'd even seen small children blown to bits. He was prepared to see all of that. He was at war. He wasn't at home – in London – the one place he felt safe. The doctor had a feeling that he wouldn't be sleeping for a long time after this.

Lestrade was sobbing – the man was completely broken. John didn't blame him. What was done to him, even he, trained in combat, would have a hard time keeping his head. He made light of the man's injuries – promising that everything would be fine and tried to keep a positive, 'everything is fine' tone. John tried to keep Greg calm, talking him down, and promised him that he was safe and that he'd be fine. _What a fucking liar he was_.

Lestrade said that he gave up. That he couldn't do it anymore. John snapped at him, the same way that he himself had been yelled at when he was shot in the middle of that damned desert and was praying to live. "You don't give up! You still have work to do and you have men who need you. You have a wife and children that need you – so you don't get to give up! Never stop fighting! You stop fighting and those bastards have won! Do you want them to win?"

"No. They won't fuckin' win." Lestrade croaked.

John half-smiled at that. "Damn right, they won't win!"

Soon, the air was filled with sirens and Sherlock ran outside to guide the emergency crew into the basement.

Captain Watson barked orders, "Don't move his arms or his leg. Keep him immobile until we can get him in for x-rays and MRI. Call Dr. Harris, make sure he's on stand-by. We'll need an orthopedic and vascular surgeon on hand as well. Sherlock, see if Mycroft can speed that up, yes?" An emergency tech tried to wrap a blood pressure cuff around Lestrade's arm – making the older man scream in pain. John practically pushed the man away. "No, you moron! You cannot take a blood pressure on an arm that is dislocated! Let's just get him to the hospital now! We'll need to stabilize his arms, neck and leg. Make sure you don't dislodge the knife. We don't want to risk nicking the femoral! And for God's sake, will someone please administer some morphine?"

In no time, Lestrade was whisked away to the hospital with Sherlock and John following behind in a cab. Mrs. Lestrade had been called to the hospital, as was Lestrade's division. By the time they arrived, the waiting room was filled with officers and family members.

Mrs. Lestrade had taken one look at John's bloody, dirty clothing and promptly passed out. One of the nurses kindly gave John a pair of scrubs to change into. John nodded at Dimmock, who was comforting the sobbing woman once she'd regained consciousness, before walking into the loo.

He looked at himself in the mirror and fought hard not to pass out himself. He was covered in blood and other bodily fluids – as soon as he saw himself, the scent he'd repressed started to permeate through his pores. John couldn't help but rush into a stall and vomit until his stomach was empty.

"John," Sherlock's voice suddenly was by his ear. John hadn't even heard the door open. "Can you get up off the floor?" His friend helped him off the cold linoleum and towards the sink. "I'm not quite sure what to say in this situation, other than thank you."

John blinked up at Sherlock, who was buttoning his shirt as if he were a toddler and helping him out of it. "What?" His shirt was promptly thrown in the rubbish bin by the sink; it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock to put it in a bio-hazard bin, but the thought left him gagging again. John leaned over the sink and panted until the sick feeling left him a bit dizzy.

Sherlock ignored his mini-panic attack and continued to help clean him up. Soon, the smell of soap overtook the smell of human waste as he became clean again. His pants were covered in urine and feces; he slipped them off his legs and tossed them in the bin. As he washed his legs, Sherlock tied the bag and threw it in the hallway in order to get rid of the rancid smell in the small bathroom.

"Are you quite alright now?" Sherlock stared at him, as if he were analyzing John's every breath…which, for all intents and purposes, he was.

"Yeah. No. I – I'm not sure yet. Ask me later."

"Do you need to sit down?" Sherlock entered his personal space, "You're shaking and your limp has returned."

"Yeah," John said, "I think I do." With that, Sherlock gripped him by the waist and helped guide John into the nearest chair away from the group gathered in the waiting room.

Once he was sitting, John slumped in exhaustion, head in hand as he felt his heart thudding in his chest. Adrenaline crash. It wasn't uncommon for him; usually, he ate like a horse until the feelings of weakness faded.

He heard a squeal of metal on tile as Sherlock moved his chair as close as possible without sitting on each other's laps. Sherlock place a hand on his wrist, pressing his fingers along his pulse point. "John. Should I call a doctor? You look peaky."

"No. I'm fine. If you could get me something with sugar, I'd appreciate it." John whispered.

"I do hope that tea and biscuits will do, Dr. Watson."

John looked up at the sound of the smooth voice, head still resting on his palm weakly. "Mycroft. Thank you for your assistance."

Mycroft looked abashed, "It was nothing, Dr. Watson. If anything, the response time was deplorable! I'll be making some changes, but you don't need to know about that right now." The older man pulled up an empty chair and sat across from his brother, his ever constant umbrella tapped against the floor rhymically. They took up half the hallway, but anyone who even tried to comment was shot a deadly glare by the Holmes boys. Mycroft handed John the take-away bag of biscuits.

John shakily took one out of the bag and started munching on it. Once he'd eaten enough for his hands to stop shaking so drastically, he accepted the cup of tea. "Sorry about all this… The situation… it's brought back some memories I would've rather not remembered."

It was strange, John noticed. Both Holmes' were watching him, neither was fighting the other, and they seemed to be speaking to each other telepathically. "It's alright, John. I was just thankful that you were there," Sherlock mentioned off-hand.

John looked at his friend angrily, "I didn't do anything, Sherlock. I couldn't do anything!" His voice rose as he spoke. "I didn't have a single bandage or even a freaking pill of Paracetamol to help him! So, if you will – please stop thanking me!"

Sherlock jerked in surprise, "I don't understand your reactions, John. You did the best you could."

John jumped out of his chair, pushing Mycroft out of his way before starting to pace. His leg was fucking throbbing! "Best I could? Best I could! Sherlock, I did nothing! I was worthless in there! Lestrade is going to lose his leg! He might lose his arms unless the surgeons can get blood flow restored quickly!" John's voice low and sharp, even in his anger, making sure that no one in the other room would over-hear. "Greg, our friend—he was tortured for **four days**. Where the hell were we?"

Mycroft jumped in, voice controlled, soft, yet authoritative. "You and Sherlock were looking for him, Doctor. You did you best to find him as quickly as you could, and once you did—Got him medical treatment as soon as possible. There was nothing else you could do. Guilt will do nothing to help your friend."

John leaned against the wall, head resting on his arms as he breathed deeply. He waited until he felt a small measure of calm, then turned around and told them both that he was going for a walk. "Call me on my cell if there is any news."

As he limped outside, John fought hard to keep from breaking down in tears. For all of his stoicism, Mycroft was right. Guilt would do nothing to help Lestrade now – Greg would need his friends in the months of recovery to come.

John remembered his time in the hospital after being invalided; while his men dropped by occasionally when they were on leave, for the most part, he was alone. He was alone with his feelings, his injuries, and his recovery.

He wouldn't let Lestrade go through it alone if he could help it. That would be a promise that he could keep.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, review if you want me to continue... I stopped here, but if there is interest, I'll keep it going.


	4. Chapter 4

Even with Mycroft's influence, it was nearly twelve hours and three emergency surgeries later before they heard anything about Lestrade's current condition. The surgeons had come out and walked the missus into a separate room to give her the news. Everyone held their breaths until Jennifer Lestrade walked back into the waiting area and started wailing.

"So, not good news then." Sherlock muttered softly. John didn't even bother to smack him one… just collapsed back into the chair in devastation. Mycroft stood and gestured to the surgeon to approach them.

"What can you tell us about the Detective Inspector's condition, Doctor?" Mycroft asked authoritatively. Privacy laws, obviously, did not apply to the British Government.

The doctor looked around before he spoke softly, "His condition has been stabilized, but he's not out-of-the-woods just yet. We've repaired the torn muscles and ligaments in his shoulders. Good news - with physical therapy, he should gain full use of his arms within a few months." Sherlock remained entirely silent and still, while John nodded in understanding. Mycroft only waved at the man to continue; all of them were anxious waiting to hear the 'bad news' that was coming. "Unfortunately, we're battling sepsis. The knife wound in his leg was severely infected – we did our best to try and save the leg. Unfortunately, the blood flow was severely diminished leading to necrosis in several areas of the limb, including his toes. We reestablished blood flow, but once the cells die, there's no coming back. There was no choice but to remove the necrotic tissue. We'll have to keep an eye on it and there's no guarantee that we won't have to go back in and completely remove the leg. He has an incredibly high fever – over 41 right now – we've put him on IV antibiotics and have restricted all visitors, including his family."

"How much necrotic tissue did you remove?" Dr. Watson asked professionally, forcing himself to detach his emotions from the current medical discussion.

The answer was brutal to hear, "We removed nearly 45% of his thigh and 10% of his leg, as well as several toes."

"The quadriceps muscles the majority of that?"

"Yes. You must be Dr. Watson… I heard that a doctor had found him at the scene and kept his arms and legs stabilized during transport. Well done, sir."

John put a fist against his mouth to keep from shouting. With difficulty, he steered the conversation back to their friend. "If you removed over 45% of the quad, it's unlikely he'll be able to put any weight on that leg... walking, running, squatting, even bending his knee -."

"Yes, you're correct. There will also considerable pain, but once he's awake, we'll work with him to setup a pain management plan. Unfortunately, this is a career-ending injury as a police inspector. He'll need round-the-clock care at first, once he's out-of-the-woods, we'll start the physical and occupational therapies as well as psychological sessions to help him through the emotional and mental recovery process. He'll also need your help… you're his friends. He'll need your support to get through this life-changing injury."

Mycroft spoke, resting a hand on John's slumped shoulder, "Yes, of course. He will have all of our support." The doctor nodded, then walked away, leaving them all in a state of shock.

"He has two children, doesn't he, John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes, he does. Freddie, his son, is five and he has a younger daughter, Sarah. She's three or four now. God, this is a mess." John stood from his chair, moving towards the group huddled in the waiting area.

Mrs. Lestrade was still sobbing. Sally Donovan held her as she cried. John kneeled in front of her and took her hands.

"It'll be alright. Greg is a fighter. I know that he'll make it … don't cry."

The woman shook her head, refusing the comfort as anger bubbled over. "No, it won't be alright! I told him to quit that damned job! But, no, he wouldn't listen to me! I had to sit at home and worry about him every single damned day because that's the job of a police officer's wife! I can't do this ANYMORE! And now, they tell me that he'll be in a wheelchair – he won't even be able to feed himself for months! So, what? Now, I'll have to take care of him? Feed him? Bathe him? For the rest of my life? I hope he just dies!" With that the crazed woman pushed him away from her and ran away – she ran away from the waiting room, the hospital, the situation – and worst of all, her husband.

You could hear crickets in the waiting room; The entire room was utterly silent and in shock at her reaction. They all jumped in shock when the silence ended as John punched a hole through the wall. No one moved to stop the enraged doctor from following the missus to the parking lot.

The woman was already at her car; she was struggling to put the keys in the ignition with shaking hands. John had run up the door and jerked it open. Mrs. Lestrade screamed as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. "So, what? You're leaving? You're just going to leave him when he needs you the most? What happened to 'in sickness and in health'?"

She pushed him away and tried to close the car door again, "Leave me alone! I can't do this! I can't see him right now!"

John used his strength to keep the door open; he was angry, yes, but also understanding. "Jennifer," he used her first name, softening his voice to try and get her to calm down and think rationally. "Greg needs you. He's really sick right now and needs his family. Trust me when I tell you, you and the children were what he was fighting for. I know it's the reason why he's still alive… Since the doctors have restricted visitors for now, why don't you get some rest and then come back in the morning?" He used his most kind and pleading tone in effort to break through her fear. "I know you're afraid, but it will be better in the morning."

"No. It won't be. I'm done, John. I'm done with all of it. You can't ask me to see him like that… to take care of him like that. I won't do it. I won't put the children through it anymore – I'm taking them on a holiday. If he makes it, tell him I said that we'll visit once he's on his feet."

"Jennifer, please… don't do this. Please." John begged, "Don't take the children anywhere, just relax for the evening and think it through. This has all been a shock and you don't need to make any decisions right now. I can take you home and we can talk about it – or you can call your friends for support."

"I just need to get away. Please! Leave me alone, I don't want to talk. Just let me go." She pushed at him again and this time he allowed her to shut the door and drive away.

John looked at the retreat sadly. She was just another AWOL army wife. He hoped for better for his friend.

He stared at the empty parking spot for a while and when he finally looked up, Sherlock was standing beside him.

"Greg is going to need our help, Sherlock. He doesn't have anyone else."

"John – I'm not very good at that area. Caring, comfort—emotions. I don't know how… to be a good friend, like you are." Sherlock stumbled. "My focus has always been work. I don't think I can help Lestrade."

John grabbed his friend's hand. "You don't have to change yourself, Sherlock."

"I am too blunt and truthful, John. I will inadvertently say something that might hurt 'feelings' or anger him."

John smiled a little bit, "Surprisingly, having someone to scream at works wonders during the recovery process. It'll give him something else to be angry about other than his condition. Venting frustration, you know? You'll just need a thick skin to handle the abuse he's likely to throw back at you."

Sherlock squeezed his hand back, "I'm sure I can meet the required criteria of deflecting verbal abuse as it's hurled at me. How do you think I made it through university, John?"

John chuckled half-heartedly, "They won't allow visitors for a while; not while his blood is septic – so, why don't we head to the flat and get some rest. We'll need to discuss his medical proxy since his wife left. Perhaps Mycroft can assist us in that regard. Of course, the news that his wife left him will probably set him back, we'll need to make sure he's stable first. And the recovery period will be -."

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "we should discuss all of this with Lestrade once he's awake; his wife leaving him again shouldn't cause any further trauma. She's left him seven times before and cheated on him with at least ten different men over the course of six years. Her reaction to his injuries was predictable. Lestrade will understand – it shouldn't be too much of a surprise. She left him at the hospital when he was shot four years ago and that was merely a graze."

John rubbed his head, "I see. So, I punched a wall for nothing?" He looked at the bruise forming on his knuckles.

"Apparently." Sherlock laughed, sending John into giggles in the middle of the parking lot. "Don't worry, Mycroft has already hired someone to fix the wall."

"God, I'm tired." John moaned dramatically.

Sherlock threw an arm over his shoulders and led him to the black limousine that was waiting for them. "Then, let's go home."

-

Thanks for all the reviews urging me to continue! Let me know what you think of the direction it's heading. (I'm imagining an injury worse than "House". It's going to take a long time before Lestrade is on his feet again.)


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